Broken Road
by Kos-Mos607
Summary: After doing the unthinkable, Flint finally comes home. Sequel to Shelter SLASH warning


beta'd by the wonderful x_posed_again. Without her, this would never have been finished. Apologies for any canon errors, hopefully they won't be too much of a distraction.

Sequel to Shelter, so please read that first

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><p><em>I don't know if I can say<br>I've lived through everything  
>but I've walked this earth alone<br>with bare feet broken in the snow_

__~Broken Road by Sully Erna_  
><em>

* * *

><p>Two words brought an end to everything he was, everything he knew. Two simple words snarled from his split and bleeding lips in anger. Two damned words erased almost everything that was human in him.<p>

"Avada Kedavra…"

The green light emitted from the tip of his wand was blinding as it engulfed the clearing he stood in. His eyes stung as he struggled to keep them open in the face of the brightness. He needed to see this; even if the light rendered him blind afterwards it would be worth it.

The human silhouette on the business end of the spell crumbled before his eyes. The sound of the body falling to the ground was almost too faint to hear under the ear-splitting howl of the spell, but never the less, his ears heard the soft 'thud' against the cold grass. After that, his mind refused to process anything else. The world became mute and crashed to a jarring halt. The green light began to filter away, leaving in its wake the dark silhouettes of the twisted trees and faint light from the over head moon in its place.

He eyed the body lying motionless on the ground a handful of yards away from him. Wisps of green tinted smoke rose from the pile of black robes. The blades of grass under it were seared black, along with several tree trunks and limbs.

His wand held high, he stepped closer and nudged the figure with his foot. The body was still and heavy. Dark, hallowed eyes that held no life stared up at him. He willed himself not to feel any remorse from the act, this man deserved no mercy, even though the man's eyes were the same shade of green as his or that both of them had a similar curve in their jaw line or the same angles in their faces. Appearances aside, this man was nothing like him and he forced himself to remember that. This man was a monster, a cold-blooded murderer who tortured children and slaughtered innocents. This man was a Death Eater who willingly chose to go against his fellow wizards and deserved no compassion.

_But he was once a normal man_, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, causing cracks to form in his iron resolve, _he was gentle once…_

Memories flashed behind his eyes before he could stop them. _A younger version of himself sitting on a strong knee while a deep, Irish voice read to him, a pair of strong hands presenting him with his first broomstick…_

…_.a cold face staring at him with such hate-filled eyes. "You are not worthy of my name- of your family name! Not while you choose to soil your lineage by lying with that filthy creature. Not when you let its dirty hands touch you!"_

He shakes his head in an attempt to clear it and silence the memory. There's wetness on his cheek and he knew without looking that several tears had fallen before he blink them away. Waves of hot pain began to radiate through his body, their source covering his right side. The tosser landed a lucky shot; he could remember feeling it only briefly during their fight before forcing himself to counter the curse.

He crouched over the body, holding a hand to his side as his injury protested the movement. His eyes spied a thin flicker of gold and he commanded his fingers to reach and close around it. The face of a small locket tumbled out from under the charred robes, completely untouched by the forbidden curse. The insides of his chest lurched painfully. He never thought he'd see this again. He thought it was lost when—

The unmistakable _"crack",_ of an apparition spell reached his ears. His head whipped around, looking for the source of the sound. Through the dark forest surrounding him he could see a dozen or so small flickers of light from illuminated wands cautiously weaving between the trees and approaching his position. The Ministry… bollocks, he knew his use of a forbidden curse would be tracked but he didn't think it would happen that fast.

His fingers tightened around the locket's chain and pulled until it broke away from the man's cold neck. His eyes once more moved to the corpse's face, his emotions becoming harder and harder to keep in check.

"You brought this on yourself, you should have just left him alone," even though his mind and chest were in emotional turmoil, his voice was cold and the anger behind it even colder.

No truer words were ever spoken. This man- no, this _monster_, brought about his own end. He was the one who harmed innocents; he was the one who destroyed everything he touched. After what he did, he knew it was only a matter of time until death came for its due, in this case, death was a former Auror who wore a younger face of family resemblance and the need for blood to remedy the wrong.

The locket was hastily shoved into his pocket as he slunk into the dark woods, moving away from the approaching bulbs of light. The leaves swaying in his wake grew still, removing the last traces of his presence from clearing.

* * *

><p>Dawn was beginning to slink above the horizon when he reached the all too familiar cobblestone street. His feet were acting on memory, slowly taking his wounded and tired body to the one place in all of London he wanted to be; somewhere where he knew he'd be safe.<p>

The weight of the locket in his front pocket was both a comfort and a curse. The small object signaled his struggle for the past two years was finally over; he was free. He could began anew if he wished it, settle down and enjoy a life where he didn't have to stray from human contact or keep looking over his shoulder; a life where he didn't have a bounty on his head and a ghost following his every step.

A life he could share with the man he loved… if the man he loved would have him back.

His eyes moved to the wrist of his right hand, where a simple strip of red cloth was tied; its presence assuring him his fears were unnecessary. It had sat on his arm for two and a half years, reminding him that no matter what happened, no matter what deplorable act he committed, he always had a safe place to return to, always had a place where he was wanted.

His feet came to a slow stop. He didn't have to look away from his arm to know where he was; _six buildings to the west, five to the south, stop after five more_. For once he felt confident enough to remain idle in the middle of the street and gaze at the face of the building. The small loft squished between two small clothing shops felt like a beacon, radiating imaginary light and willing him to come closer. The curtains were drawn around the one window facing the street. Flint always hated their checkered coloring- they were too damn bright in the morning and who needed that headache when they stumbled out of bed, half asleep- but found the stupid things almost inviting.

The wound on his side throbbed once more, reminding him of his injury. His feet moved forward on their own accord once again, climbing the stairs between the shops and stopping at the wooden door hidden at the end of the open hall. His hand readied its self to knock, but he decided against it. It was early and he was about to fall flat on his face from exhaustion, he wasn't going to wait for Wood's slow moving arse to get outa bed.

The door unlocked its self with a light twitch of his wand. He made a mental note to grumble to Wood about his daftness in not placing any protective wards as he shut it behind him. The flat was quiet and devoid of the slowly approaching sunlight. He kept his footsteps quiet as he moved to the direction of the tattered couch Wood kept in the sitting room; the one he'd woken up countless times on after the nights he had stumbled back wounded, bleeding and close to death.

The springs groaned under his weight as he sat down. His side was throbbing hard enough to rattle his teeth to their very core. He drew in a dry hiss as he probed along the wound with a finger. Unlike most curses flung his way, this one didn't leave a smoldering, burnt patch of flesh. Instead there was a long, thin gash along his side, starting a hair under his left pectoral and ending near his hipbone. His shirt and trousers were soaked with blood and sticking to his skin in dry, cakey flakes.

Bollocks, just once he would like to walk into Wood's flat without being wounded or a breath from death's grasp, bloody hell, just once…

"Still not dead I see."

The soft brogue was music to his ears.

"M' nearly there Wood," his voice was low and broken as he spoke, "You should rejoice."

His ears tracked Oliver's footsteps as they rounded the couch. The Keeper stood before him, eyes half lidded with sleep and his short hair bed matted. Flint felt his throat become tight. Merlin, Oliver was a damned gorgeous sight for his weary eyes. His fingers itched with the intent to reach out and pull the other man closer but he resisted it. Aside from the pain the act would cause his side, he didn't know if Wood would accept his touch or if the Scot's fist would collide with his jaw for attempting it- he had enough off a headache as it was.

"Bloody hell, Flint," Wood breathed, eyeing the patches of dry blood on the other man's shirt.

Flint's body froze when Wood's fingers touched his side, gently tracing the length of the wound through the soiled t-shirt.

"Ah fuck me- lay back would ya," Wood's hands gently pushed him on his back, relieving pressure from the wound.

He hissed once more as Wood's fingers worked to pull his shirt over his head. The gash was even a worse sight when it was uncovered.

"Jus' keep yer hand held here. I'll be back," Wood muttered pressing one of Flint's bloodstained hands against the wound, before moving out of the man's view.

Flint groaned from the flaring pain in his side and closed his eyes. The shape of the room danced behind his closed eyelids and his head swam in a hazy, stomach turning fog. The feeling of Oliver's warm hands on his side slowly brought him back to reality. He could feel the tip of the Keeper's wand touching the wounds on his face, healing them before moving to the wide cut on his side.

The wound wouldn't close, even after five healing spells were cast on it.

"Shite, what did ya get hit with?"

"Nothing that'll heal easy," Flint muttered as he swallowed the bile pooling at the back of his throat, "Jus- just patch it up and do what ya can."

Wood placed his wand on the battered coffee table with a curse and left the room once more. When he returned, his hands were full of cloth and bottled potions.

"So help me Flint, if you die—"

"M' not gonna die Wood," Flint mumbled, half conscious, "M' a stubborn arse, remember?"

His chest fluttered when he heard Wood's shaky laugh, "That you are."

Smiling, Flint allowed his eyes to drift closed. His willed his mind to settle its self into a calm. He was safe and in capable hands. He knew Wood wouldn't allow him to kick the bucket just yet; after all, if anyone was going to kill Marcus Flint's sorry arse, it was going to be Oliver Wood and no one else.

Oliver's hands gently worked on the wound, rinsing the blood away with a potion and spreading a thick paste over the cut to seal it. Flint felt himself lulled into a peaceful slumber by their touch. The man's fingers ghosted over his flesh gently, awaking memories of happier times when the Keeper's hands were free to roam over his skin when they wished. Merlin, Wood always had such soft hands, far too soft for a Keeper. Flint missed teasing him about those too soft hands almost as much as he missed feeling them on his skin, missing feeling those firm fingers softly walking across his flesh, touching and caressing with tenderness.

Hands that could hand a quaffle with tremendous skill and yet, make Flint feel so human with their soft touches…

…_hands that nervously fisting the bedding under his hands, using it as a small lifeline as he avoided Flint's eyes._

_Flint sat back on his heels, watching the sight of the once confident Keeper curling in on himself and feeling his chest grow tighter from it. He knew they were pushing this. It was too soon and Wood obviously wasn't ready for this kind of close contact if his downcast eyes and heavy posture against the headboard was anything to go by._

"_It's ok Ol," Flint whispered._

_Wood's fingers tightened into the blankets. Judging by the lines around the corners of his brown eyes he was angry, but at what Flint can't tell – Oliver could be angry at Flint for letting a light petting session get to far, angry at himself for his reluctance or at all of the fucked up events that led them both to this point. A year ago, a light touch from either of them usually led to a long rutting session that could be expanded to every square inch of the tiny flat or a nice, slow tumble that had both of them groaning and reeling in pleasure for hours._

_But now…_

_Flint resisted the urge to scratch the back of his neck, knowing the tell would be too noticeable, and settled for flexing his own fingers into a fists. Blimey, he had no blasted clue what to do. Should he say something else? If so, then what? What the bloody hell could a bloke say in this situation other then blame himself for starting it?_

_He knew he shouldn't have let one little kiss get this far but Merlin, it had felt so good. After the Keeper's return from St. Mungo's, Wood had turned into the walking dead, hardly eating, speaking or sleeping and going to great lengths to avoid Flint's presence in their tiny, shared flat. Flint didn't blame him for his behavior, he never blamed Oliver for anything that had happened, but that didn't mean the evasion didn't hurt like hell._

_An hour ago, Wood had allowed him to move close enough to touch, something Flint hadn't been able to do in months, and of course he had gotten carried away, taken an innocent touch too far, too soon and Oliver had recoiled from him and now, Flint felt like an arse._

"_M' sorry."_

"_I don't want ya to be," Wood whispered, finally breaking his ten minute long silence, "I want it, bloody hell do I want it bad. But-"_

_Flint felt his heart move into his throat. He couldn't take this, this wasn't his Oliver. This wasn't the man who he had fallen in love with a year ago. This wasn't the man who, after a game win, dripping with confidence and made even bolder from countless shots of firewhiskey, would push Flint against the wall of their flat hard enough to bruise and insisted on devouring every inch of Irishmen with his hot mouth. _

_No, it seemed that Oliver Wood had perished months ago at the hands of a malicious Death Eater and Flint would never get him back._

_It wasn't fair._

_Shaking his head, Flint scooted closer, making sure his moments were slow. He saw Wood's shoulders tense as he raised his arm, but he didn't let it deter him. His fingers closed around the Keeper's tightly clenched fist and fumbled until they managed to work their way between the Scot's strong fingers._

_When Wood's hand closed around his Flint released the breath he didn't realize he was holding in._

_When Wood's brown eyes finally lifted to his face, the last of Flint's resolve crumbled to dust. In its place, his anger grew._

"_You're still wearing it?"_

_He blinked at Oliver's question, scatterbrained from his never ceasing train of thought, and followed the Keeper's gaze down to the strip of cloth tied around his wrist._

"_Yeah."_

_The Keeper's face lowered, "I lost mine."_

_Flint felt his temper surge and struggled to keep a hold on it. How the bloody hell could Wood blame himself for that?_

"_You didn't lose it." He whispered, voice turning horse._

_**It was taken, Ollie, there's a difference. Damn it all, there is a difference!**_

"_He said I stole it," Wood murmured, lowering his head, "That, something like me didn't deserve to wear it."_

_The look on Wood's face made his heart clench again and the rage inside his mind burn fiercer._

_**I'll get it back Ol, I swear.**_

_Flint let his eyes fall to his hands. Bollocks, maybe he should've taken that bloody thing off his arm if all it would do was turn Wood into an even bigger wreck. No. Things were shite right now, but it would be even worse if that waste of fabric wasn't around his wrist. Oliver would take that as a sign he was no longer wanted. Flint may be an arse, but he'd rather put his wand in his own eye before he tore the stupid rag around his wrist off and Wood knew that._

_Flint silenced the raging voice inside of his mind and counted to ten before allowing himself to speak._

"_You gave this to me because you knew it'd keep my stupid arse alive," he says, knowing both the truth and irony behind the words, "An' it has."_

_There wasn't much of a point to lace words like 'luck' and 'fortune' with an inanimate object in Flint's mind, especially one as simple and insignificant as a bit of cloth torn from the hem of a robe, but- even though it annoyed him greatly to admit it- he did seem to have a presence watching over him when he wore it, protecting him from unseen forces with its 'luck' and banishing the worst of his fears whenever he looked upon it._

_That stupid bit of cloth…_

His side is very tender when his mind begins to refocus and his eyes finally open themselves. Groggily, he presses his hand against it and forces himself to sit up. He's surprised to feel his bloodied trousers had been removed. Then again, Oliver did have skillful fingers.

"Easy," Wood's voice sooths and a warm hand is placed over his.

Wood helps move him into an upright position. Flint's eyes burn from the brightness in the room, forcing him to keep them shut until they struggle to focus. When they open again, a small flicker of gold light immediately grabs their attention. A part of him isn't surprised to see that the locket had found its way out of his pocket, not in the least. The damned thing was never his to own anyway…

_It was never his to own, and yet, he cherished it. That stupid thing meant more to him then almost anything but he could never bring himself to wear it. The few times it had sat around his neck were maddening. The blasted thing was a physical manifestation of all the guilt and feelings he wanted desperately to keep mashed in the depths of his mind and he found himself being crushed under their weight. He couldn't bear to wear it again. _

_That's why he had given it to the only other thing on the entire earth that he cherished, the only person worthy enough to wear it around their neck. He could still remember the warmth in those brown eyes when he present it, trust, pride and love swirling in their depths…and how defeated and hurt they looked when it had been taken away._

Flint closed his eyes and sighed. None of that mattered anymore. He had gotten the damned thing back and punished the monster that had taken the locket – _and so much more_- from him, from them. None of it mattered anymore. His eyes glanced down at his wrist, needing the assurance of the red cloth's presence against his skin. It was still there, still resting where he had knotted it.

"How bad is the pain?"

Flint took a deep breath to compose himself, "Just fabulous Wood, I'm in the prime of my life."

"You're lucky to be alive," the Keeper snorted.

Flint felt like rolling his eyes; _like he hadn't heard that before_. The familiar words brought a small smile to his lips. At times, Wood could be an annoying mother hen and a complete prat the next, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't miss it. He missed everything they once had, the closeness, the gentle teasing and name calling, the way Oliver's mere presence could sooth even his worse fears. Blimey he missed _them_. He missed having a real home where he felt safe and a warm bed where he was loved.

Fuck, that evil bastard deserved a dozen more deaths from Flint's hand for all that he had taken from them… and a hundred more for what he had taken from Oliver.

The tightness in Flint's throat returned from the memory, "I got it back."

His voice was no louder than a whisper when he spoke but he knew Oliver heard him, loud and clear from the way his shoulders became stiff. The sight turned his stomach and pulled at his heartstrings.

"He's dead Ollie."

The soft brown eyes met his own, unsure, pleading for the truth. Flint held their stare and nodded. He wouldn't lie, not about this. He didn't care if the admission made him a bigger monster then the one he killed. As long as Wood could sleep at night without fear, it would be worth it. He'd walk through hell to make sure Wood was safe.

Oliver finally dropped his gaze. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.

"Can ya stand?"

"M' might need some help."

"Let's get you to the bed, less stress on your side." Wood's strong arms gently looped under his own, propping him upright.

Flint allowed himself to be pulled upright into the Keeper's strong arms, welcoming their warmth. He moved into the small bedroom without protest until Wood made an attempt to sit him on the edge of the bed. Instead of letting go, his arms held tight around the keeper's back, holding him in a tight embrace.

"I got him, Wood. I got him," He struggled to keep the pleading noses inside of his throat, but they must've escaped because Oliver's arms tightened around his waist.

"You need rest, Flint."

This time he didn't fight when he was pushed down to the bed, "He won't hurt you again."

Wood's hands froze on his shoulders for a moment before the Keeper sighed.

"Get some rest, Flint."

Flint nodded and let his body fall against the soft bedding with a muffled thump. The blankets were so warm and inviting. He missed this stupid, lumpy bed. He used to hate it, he always woke up with pains in his legs and back and he'd lost count how many times he grumbled at Wood to stop being cheap and buy another one, but now, hell, he wouldn't take a bed lined with silk over the blasted thing.

The only problem was it was missing something.

"You gonna stay with me?"

"I dunno Flint."

"Come on Ol," Flint murmured, feigning charm, "I could use a little body warmth."

"Flint."

"Please."

He didn't beg, not often, only three times in his entire life that he could remember; the first was when he present the locket to Oliver and urged him to take it, to keep the two things Flint cared most about in the world together and safe. The other times were on the same occasion two years ago, when he begged, pleaded and prayed with his entire being that he'd see Wood again and find wherever he had been dragged off to.

Wood dropped his head and sighed, "Fine."

Flint's lower lip curved into a slight smile. Fighting his exhaustion, he watched as Wood toed his shoes off and climbed onto the bed with him. A groan vibrated inside of Flint's throat when the Keeper's warmth pressed against his bare chest. Merlin, it felt good. Four months, four months since the last time he stumbled inside this tiny flat needing help, four months since the last time he and Wood had slept together, four months since the last time someone had touched him, four months too long.

Oliver settled against his side, hesitantly placing his arm around Flint's stomach, mindful of his wound. Flint's hand closed around his, his thumb slightly stroking the back of the Keeper's hand. Tenderness was a strange feeling to him. If it wasn't for Wood, he wouldn't have known what it had felt like. He knew what affection was, his father had shown him some during his childhood on occasion and he had brief flashes of his mother's kindness before the illness took her when he was young. He had some grasp about what it detailed, what it had felt like, but he never had a real clue about how good it felt when someone supported you, was proud of you, loved you, until the Keeper had become a permanent figure in his life.

If it wasn't for Wood, Flint doubted there would be anything left in him that could be considered human.

But… if he wasn't a permanent figure in Oliver's life, none of this would have happened in the first place. The last two years would have been peaceful for both of them and Oliver would never have been hurt.

That thought hurt more than the pain in his side did.

If he wasn't in love with Oliver, if that monster didn't know that he cared about the Keeper more than life its self, then none of this would have happened.

* * *

><p>"<em>You need rest."<em>

_Flint's eyes remained on the floor of his office, "I'm fine."_

"_My eyes are as good as ever, Flint," Kingsley warned, referring to the dark circles forming under the younger man's eyes and the paleness of his face. "You're no use to anyone at the moment."_

_Flint rubbed his eyes and sighed. He'd been partnered with Kingsley for the past six months, ever since Moody had been reassigned for Potter detail, and aside from it being an honor to train under him, the man could be insufferable at times; like right now._

"_I'm not leaving."_

_Kingsley made a sound deep in his throat, obviously knowing Flint would refuse the order. Of course he would, Flint's mind grumbled, the first thing he learned about his new mentor was the man was damn good at reading people; he had learned to see past the majority of Flint's defenses within a month and Flint didn't know if he should've been impressed or apprehensive of it._

"_I didn't say leave." Kingsley stated, his voice as even and deep as it always was, "I will wake you in a few hours."_

_Flint listened to his footsteps as they turned from the door of his small office until they disappeared into the hall. Once they were out of his hearing, Flint inhaled a shaky breath._

_Merlin, he was tired, so damned tired. Every bone ached, every muscle was over worked, his stomach rumbled from his lack of solid meals for the past day and a half. The discomfort in his body hardly mattered. His mind registered it, but refuses to bend under its pull. _

_He needed to keep going, needed to stay awake and keep searching. Nothing else mattered, not his needs, not the pain in his body or the panic growing inside of his mind and chest._

_Nothing mattered until he found Oliver._

_He may have gone without sleep for the past two days, but was still at the top of his game. Despite what Kingsley and the rest of the Aurors thought, he was still able to function and his mind was as sharp as ever._

_Besides, even if he was dead exhausted, there was no force on Earth that could make him go back to the flat tonight, if ever again; not since he returned home the night before last and found the place in complete ruin. The door had been hanging by a single hinge, all of the protective wards had been removed, the table in the front room blasted to splinters and Oliver had been nowhere in sight. There was no Dark Mark hanging in the night sky that night, a small glimmer of hope Flint took comfort in, but the cryptic messages scrawled onto the wall in blood, quickly stomped it out of existence._

_**Mudblood.**_

_He remembered feeling his heart stop for several beats and then move into his throat._

_Frantic moments were spent canvassing the flat, tearing every room apart looking for something, anything that would tell him what had happened and where his partner's whereabouts where._

_He froze in the doorway when he reached their room. All of the moving pictures Oliver had mounted on the wall had been pulled off and smashed, the moving figures of Oliver's family stared at him from under piles of broken glass._

_The bold red letters painted on the wall made his blood run even colder._

_**Blood traitor.**_

_There was no doubt in his mind that had been left on the wall for him. A cryptic message condemning him for the unforgivable sin he committed against his birthright, against his blood. Many knew of his pure heritage, but few knew of Oliver's muggleborn blood. Both he and Flint had gone to great lengths to conceal it. To no avail it seemed._

_Feeling his head and limbs become even heavier, Flint sighed in defeat and slid away from his desk. With a brisk wave of his wand a small bedroll appeared on the ground by his feet. The floor was cold and hard under him as he toed off his shoes and settled into it. Sleep didn't come easy. Every time his eyes closed images of Oliver played behind their shut lids, imagining him being held in the worst places his mind could fathom. The nerves in his body continued to wind tighter and tighter until he feared he would burst apart at the seams._

_A lump formed inside of his throat and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't swallow it down and be done with it. Instead, it escaped from his lips in the form of a frustrated and fearful whimper, a sound where, under any other circumstances, he would have been ashamed of. His fingers trembled as they rubbed the cloth on his wrist, hoping with his entire being he could rub some of its unbelievable luck free from its fibers._

_**Merlin please let Wood be ok. Please…**_

_He wasn't a man of prayer and he didn't rightly believe in it- nothing ever came from wailing about your troubles to some invisible force that simply was not there despite the lies you were told-, but tonight he was silently praying to any unseen force that would listen._

_**Please let me find him.**_

_His fingers kept diligently stroking the soft fabric long after his heavy eye lids had fallen closed._

_**Please let me find him alive.**_

_****A day later he was half out of his mind from panic and exhaustion._

_Nothing. Blimey, he had nothing! None of his neighbors had seen anyone go into his flat three nights before. No reported sightings of Death Eaters. No rescued muggleborn captives. No activity of any kind._

_Bloody hell, this couldn't be happening._

_Flint sagged heavily against the pale bricks of the ministry building. After another long morning of pursuing cold leads, he was in desprete need of some fresh air. Around him, people were moving and London was its usual hive of busy everyday life. No one paid him a second look as they past, leaving him to drown in own mental pit of despair._

_Three days… three fucking days and no word. He didn't want to think it –almost refused to bring himself to- but the chances of finding Oliver at this point were growing smaller and smaller; almost becoming nonexistent._

_Inhaling one last breath of bitter morning air, Flint pushed himself away from the hard wall and commanded his feet to take him back to the ministry's entrance._

_He took no more than five steps from the building, when a small, sealed, roll of parchment was dropped on the cobblestones in front of his feat. A flutter of wings echoed in the air above his head as a weather-beaten screech owl settled on the street lamp closest to him, hooting impatiently when he didn't immediately retrieve it's delivery from the ground._

_Eyeing the owl, he crouched down and retrieved the letter. His dirt covered fingers trembled as they broke open the seal. His strained eyes struggled to read the thin pointed writing, recognizing Kingsley's familiar scrawl almost immediately._

_**St. Mungo's.**_

_The name creates an imaginary weight inside of his gut._

_St. Mungo's Hospital…_

* * *

><p>A pair of feet shuffling around the bedroom slowly roused him from his sleep.<p>

The blurry figure of Oliver came into focus, standing at the foot of the bed, naked from the waist up. A towel rested on his shoulders and the smell of steam and the all too familiar fragrance of the soap the Keeper has used for the past two years reached Flint's nose.

He drank in the view of the former Gryffindor's back, starting from the hem of his jeans and slowly working his way up the plains of strong muscles and taunt skin. His eyes slid to a stop when their gaze reached Oliver's left shoulder. The skin there is not the glorious, sun kissed, bronze color the rest of Oliver's body is. Instead, even after two years, the flesh is a sickly, pink color with flakey red patches. Resting in the center of the unsightly discoloration is the most upsetting sight of all; two words carved in jagged lines from the tip of a hot knife.

Stretching from the curve of his shoulder and ending just shy of his scapula is the word that makes Flint's blood boil whenever he hears it; _**Mudblood**_.

Under it is an even more upsetting word, carved deep enough to forever hinder Oliver's playing ability; _**Filth**_.

Flint's always been torn between tears and bone curling rage every time he sees them. He wants to tear anything he can reach apart and never let go of Wood at the same time. The death of the man who committed those acts is little comfort to him. The damage was done and both of them had suffered greatly and had been crushed under it.

Feeling the heavy stare on his back, Oliver turned and met Flint's face, "Sorry, did I wake you?"

Flint shrugged and waved an arm half heartily. Sleep was a luxury he didn't get much of for the past two years from spending too many long nights shacked up in dirty pubs or hole-in-the-wall places out in the country he wouldn't bring a dog to.

And of course, there was always the lack of a warm, Scottish body to keep him warm and comfort him during those nights.

Shaking the last traces of sleep from his system, Flint gingerly rolled to the side of the bed and slid his feet to the floor. The lack of pain in his side was a relief. A glance downward showed the wound in his side was almost completely healed except for the thin, red line marking where the mouth of the cut had been.

"Are you in any pain?" Wood called over his shoulder as he searched for a shirt.

"A bit," Flint mumbled.

He stood; his legs shaky and wobbling under his weight. Wood was at his side in a blink, ready to steady him. When the Irishman remained standing on his own, the Keeper moved to check the wound on his side.

A shiver rolled down Flint's spine when he felt Wood's fingers trail down his side ever so lightly.

"That hurt?" Wood's eyes moved to his face. Obviously the Keeper had taken his flinch to be caused by discomfort.

"No," Flint rasped, deep and throaty, and reached for the Scot's hand. "Do it again."

Oliver's eyes went dark, "Flint."

Flint's hands moved to his face, fingers gently tilting the Keeper's head back. He kept his movements slow and easy for Wood to predict- easy for him to move away if he felt he had too. Not that he was expecting Wood to; the Keeper had stop shying from his touch long ago and often welcomed it whenever he didn't want to thump Flint upside the head. Over the past two years both of them had learned to take what they could, when they could. No fears, past experiences or tempers were allowed to come between those moments.

Flint brought their mouths together, gently pressing his lips to the corner of Oliver's. Wood stilled under him, taken back from the sudden touch, before parting his firm lips when he felt Flint's slick tongue seeking entry.

Flint couldn't help his moan. Merlin he's missed this. The last contact he had with Oliver was four long months ago- one lousy night where he had risked it all to stumble back here, half dead from a curse, and hand fallen asleep with Wood's sweat slicked body pressed against him.

Blood hell he wanted that again!

He pulled Wood closer, crashing their bodies together and making his intentions perfectly clear.

Wood pulled away and sighed, "Ya know, just once, I'd like to be able to do this without worrying about your health."

Flint couldn't help with chuckle; "It's bound to happen someday, Wood." Smiling, Flint leaned closer and kept his voice soft, "Someday soon."

He glimpsed a small flicker of hope in Oliver's eyes before it was blinked away. Instinctively, Flint pulled the other man closer. His breath caught in his throat when Wood didn't pull away. The other man melted into his embrace, his arms coming around Flint's strong back and holding tight.

It had taken two years for them to reach this point. Two years of patience, of careful touches and chosen words. Two years of Flint assuring Oliver that he wasn't anything like the man who had tortured him, two years of long nights spent alone while Flint hunted that bastard down to the ends of the earth, vowing he'd pay for the pain he had inflicted.

The man's identity wasn't too hard to learn. Even though Wood never uttered a name, Flint knew, deep in his chest, who had abducted him, who had tortured him for three long grueling days. Who had broken him in so many ways.

He knew, he had always known.

Every time Oliver shied away from him, flinching from a simple touch to his arm. Every time Wood had awoken screaming from a nightmare and spent the following day avoiding any contact with him. Every time Oliver looked at his wrist in guilt. All of it further cemented the man's identity in Flint's mind.

At first, Flint was willing to do his part. He kept the touches innocent and few. When the nightmares came he slept on the damn lumpy couch in the living room and stayed at his office late, knowing his presence wasn't wanted. But it eventually became too much. He couldn't take seeing the pain on Wood's face and the gap of space between them that continued to grow.

Something had to be done and after two long, painful years, Flint had taken care of it.

They were both free now, his father was dead. The nightmare was over.

Moving his hands away from Wood's waist he ran them slowly down the keeper's strong arm. His fingers grasped Wood's hand as he moved to sit on the end of the bed. A soft tug pulled the other man towards him as he scooted back. Oliver took the hint and climbed on the bed, settling his strong body on top of him.

A weary look crossed the Scot's face and Flint almost laughed from it. He didn't allow Wood to take the reins often and when he did, it usually ended up with Oliver fighting him for every pleasurable inch of it. Flint enjoyed the exhausting battle because it always made things a hell of a lot more interesting.

Right now though, he didn't have the need for it. He just wanted heat, closeness and those damn strong yet such soft touches the Keeper's hands could give.

Oliver obliged, his hands trailing Flint's bare torso in soft trails that left goose bumps in their wake and long kisses that left them both panting and struggling for air.

Flint was more than content to drown in the hot warmth that was Oliver. Every painful memory of the past handful of years, every injury, every cold night spent alone seamed to fade from existence as the Scotsman's body pressed against him.

Well… all but one memory, one that was far too important to forget. One that took place before all of this shite started.

* * *

><p>"<em>You're gonna miss the game?"<em>

_Flint was smart enough to keep his eyes on the floor of their kitchen, knowing exactly how furious the Keeper's face looked. He knew his news wouldn't sit well with the man. The title game against Puddlemere and Wimbourne was tomorrow. Wood had been on edge for weeks while awaiting it, training like a mad man until the early hours of the morning and spending all of his free time at the practice pitch. He'd even gone to great lengths to procure a V.I.P. seat for Flint for the game._

"_I have to work."_

"_Work?" Wood snorted, "Are they gonna have you stand guard over another muggle pub again?"_

_Flint wished. At least with a post like that he could've weaseled out of it._

"_There's gonna be a raid tonight," Flint said, finally breaking his silence._

_The anger was gone from Wood's face within a blink and confusion replacing it._

"_You're going on a raid?"_

"_I'm an Auror, Wood."_

"_Not yet you're not, you're still apprenticing."_

_Flint resisted the urge to growl. Yeah, he wasn't a full Auror yet, Mad-Eye had yet to issue him the final task, but still, it wasn't like he was a bloody novice._

"_Moody wants me in the field with him. Says I'm ready."_

_He didn't miss the bobbing in Wood's throat as he swallowed. Flint felt himself do the same. They both knew this day would come. He was an Auror, he was going to be on the front lines of the coming war one day and there was nothing either of them could do about it._

_Oliver's quidditch gear lay scattered about on the table and on the floor and Flint eyed it sadly. He had chosen his path, chosen to be an Auror over everything else and pushed himself almost to complete madness to survive the training. It was what he wanted. He wanted to protect; he wanted to redeem his family name._

_But most of all, he wanted to protect people like Oliver- the people who were the cause of this war and who were the innocents in it at the same time._

"_Blood hell, Flint," Oliver sighed and rubbed the back of his neck._

_He could read the emotions in Oliver's face and the pleading in his eyes; don't go its dangerous, stay with me. Blimey, of course Wood would make this harder._

_Fortunately, Flint had come prepared…well, sort of._

_His fingers reached into his front pocket and fumbled blindly until they closed around a smooth, round surface._

"_Here"_

_He extended his hand out to the Keeper, presenting the gift. One of Wood's dark eyebrows rose as he reached for it._

"_What is it?"_

_Flint felt his throat become dry as he stared at the small, gold locket resting in the Keeper's strong hand. In a normal situation he would have resorted to his wit, a habit he had become accustomed to during Hogwarts, but right now he decided against it. This was too serious of a moment for him to ruin. He didn't spend the entire day in Gringotts picking his vault apart for the bloody thing for him to spoil everything by being an arse._

"_It was my mother's," Flint whispered, finally bringing himself to speak._

_Oliver froze at the admission, "Flint—"_

_Before he could finish, Marcus closed the distance between them._

"_I want you ta have it," His fingers closed around Wood's hand._

"_But it's your mum's."_

"_Wood—"_

"_I can't, what if something happens to it."_

"_Listen Ollie," he didn't fail to see the Keeper's eyes light up at the pet name. "I can't wear it. I hate this bloody thing too much. It's the only thing I got that's hers; it's all she left me after she died and I can't stand this damned thing because all it does it remind me of her and-" he voice cut off, forcing him to take a few shaky breaths in order to get it back, "And how long it took her to die from that bloody illness."_

_He couldn't bring himself to look at Wood's face during the admission. Instead, his energy was directed at the memories playing behind his eyelids, finally free from the unseen hole he had tucked them away in. His mother's face, her soft smile, seeing her lying broken in bed as the illness took its slow time taking her._

_His fingers tightened around Oliver's and gently pushed the locket contained in their joined hands to the other man's chest, "Please, Ollie, this thing means more to me than almost anything and I want you to have it."_

_The Scotsman's eyes grew dark. For a moment, Flint thought he was going to refuse the gift and prepared himself to accept the refusal, but his fears vanished when he found himself pulled into a tight embrace against Wood's strong chest. He allowed himself to relax and melt into it. It was still something he was getting used to, the casual touching, and the soft looks, all of the small things that made up the intimacy of lovers. It was strange._

_Strange yet enjoyable._

_He watched as Wood's fingers gently pried the locket open, revealing a small moving image of a young woman and her year old son._

"_She's beautiful."_

_Flint felt himself nod. She was beautiful; he only wished he had more of her in him._

"_I don't have anything to give you."_

_Flint rolled his eyes, "I don't want anything, Wood."_

"_But, I need to- I want to give you something." It was not often that Oliver Wood struggled to speak and Flint found himself slightly taken back. "You'll need something to keep you safe."_

"_I have you," The Irishman replied._

_It was true. Oliver had become his reason for fighting and his reason to return home. What more did he need?_

"_But, I wait-"_

_An idea dawned in the Keeper's eyes, Flint could see it. He watched silently as Wood moved to one of the numerous bags containing his quidditch gear and searched feverishly for something. When something red and wavy was removed from its insides, Flint released a groan._

"_Tell me those are not the same robes you had at Hogwarts."_

"_Damn your arse they are," Oliver laughed, "The one's I wore when we won the cup, remember."_

"_Unfortunately."_

"_I've worn pieces of them under my uniform for every game I've played in, for luck, an' they've worked. I'm on Puddlemere full time now."_

_Flint nodded his head, allowing the Keeper to continue rambling. He knew Wood's entire league history by heart, after all, it wasn't long ago when he, Moody and several other Aurors were assigned as additional security for the British League games and he and Oliver's paths had crossed once more. Aside from some foul ups that assignment was the best thing that had ever happened to him, even if he hadn't known at the time._

"_Wood, there's no way in hell I'm going to wear your damned quidditch gear,"_

_Oliver took this as a personal challenge instead of an insult, "And, why not?"_

"_Because, knowing you, they haven't been washed since Hogwarts," Flint snorted, crossing his arms, "'Sides, you'll need 'em for the game."_

"_But you'll need them more."_

_The soft whisper cut right through Flint's resolve. Bloody hell, Wood was making that face again, the one with the sad eyes and pleading face, the one he hated the most because it worked every damned time. Sighing in defeat-because he knew, sooner or later he'd cave in-, Flint stepped forward. His fingers trailed over the long, crimson cloak Wood had worn many years ago during the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin game. That had seemed like a life time ago. Back then all he had cared about was wiping the smirk off Wood's face and now, he found he enjoyed putting it there rather than taking it off._

_His fingers trailed down to the cloak's tail, where the red fabric met bright gold embroidering. Merlin, he hoped Wood wouldn't crack him over the head for this…_

_His hands closed around the closest corner in the fabric and pulled. He heard Wood make a pained sound in his throat, and more than likely searching for something to hit his crazed partner with, but he forced himself to ignore it as he tore a sizeable amount of the fabric free. When finished, he took a few steps back, wanting to both be out of the Scotsman's reach and be in a good position for Wood to see what he was doing, and brought the strip of cloth to his wrist. His fingers tied a suitable knot, one that was sure to hold the thing securely in place and held his hand up to view when finished._

"_There," Flint replied in a tired voice, "Happy now?"_

_The Scotsman seamed to forgive the act of blasphemy and a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, "Good. Maybe it'll keep your stubborn arse alive."_

"_Don't see why not. It kept you from falling in your arse during the match."_

_He chuckled when Wood's fist smacked into his shoulder, "I'll knock you on your arse."_

_Flint laughed at that, his eyes never leaving the red cloth around his wrist. He supposed he should get used to the sight of the damned thing because apparently it would be there for a while._

_A strip from the robes Oliver had worn a handful of years ago when Gryffindor had handed Slytherin there arses was now going to be the one force on Earth that kept him alive._

_Merlin, what irony._

_He was starting to hate the thing already._

* * *

><p>A strange sound forced his eyes to open.<p>

Groaning, he raised his head from the pillow and scanned the room for its source. His eyes immediately located an owl sitting on the windowsill across from him, a letter tied around its legs and hooting impatiently when it wasn't immediately answered.

Gently removing himself from the tangle of limbs he and Wood had fallen asleep in, he quietly rolled out of bed and stumbled over to the owl.

The two words scrawled onto the parchment stole the air from his lungs.

**Leave now.**

It was Kingsley's hand writing and judging from the awkward way the words curved, it was scribbled out in a hurry.

Shite.

He didn't know how Kingsley knew where he was and rightly didn't care. The man had never given him a reason to not trust his words. Grabbing his clothes, Marcus struggled into them. He retrieved his wand from the nightstand and froze when his eyes moved to Oliver's sleeping form.

His insides lurched. Once more he was leaving. Once more Oliver would awake and discover Flint wasn't anywhere in sight, even after he assured him it wouldn't happen again.

Fuck.

A whimper echoed in Flint's throat. His hand shook as he reached out and gently touched Wood's shoulder. The Keeper mumbled in his sleep and reached for Flint's hand with his own, clumsily closing his fingers around it.

Pulling his hand away was the hardest thing Flint ever had to do. Harder than passing his Auror training. Harder then admitting his feelings for Oliver for the first time. Harder, even, than killing his own father.

A weight grew inside of his stomach as he left the flat, locking the door behind him and placing all the protective wards he knew around the door and the hall, growing more heavy as he reached the street and walked away from the only place in the entire world he wanted to be, _had killed to be_.

He was no more than four blocks away from the flat when the sound of five Apparition spells reached his ears. Bollocks.

Two cloaked bodies appeared before him and three more suddenly materialized behind him. Whatever urge he had to reach for his wand was soon gone. There was no way to escape. He knew his use of the killing curse wouldn't go unnoticed by the Ministry, especially with the way it was being these days after Scrimgeour's death.

Resigning himself, Flint released a deep breath and slowly, raised his hands.

"Alright lads, you got me."

As he was turned around and placed in chains, Flint eyed the long, winding street he had traveled down. He couldn't see the flat from here but he knew where it sat in the shadows of the many buildings.

_I'm sorry, Ollie_

_I'm sorry… _


End file.
